In Limbo
by friendlyfaithplate
Summary: A short one-shot about Sherlock's past. Rated M for heavy drug usage and coarse language.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Holmes, any other characters mentioned, or the BBC :)**

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Ecstasy. That was one word for it.

You could also say euphoria. Numbness. Passion. Aberration.

The feeling of the needle as it slowly caused that beloved pinching sensation drove him daft. He would grunt and groan, tremble and sweat. The tremor to his fingers caused him to drop his pencil multiple times, making him curse and decidedly forget the whole thing and throw a few books across the room.

Seratonin. Dopamine. The colors behind his eyes danced and flirted with each other, fornicating and excreting in his mind as his hands could barely handle a book.

Some nights he would just lay and stare at his ceiling, his mind running rampant and blood pulsing through his veins.

"Sherlock!" A voice would yell. He would mutter words back at the shouting person. A silhouette would hover over his body, swearing and tutting and whining.

"You need to learn how to fucking contain yourself. What would mum say? How would she react to all of this, hmm?"

"Piss off," He'd respond, his words slurring to create a soft background to the crescendo happening next to him. He could never fully make out what his brother would say, aside from words like 'twat' and 'bum' and 'bastard child'. He would typically reciprocate with words such as 'cock-sucker' and 'pompous, arrogant piece of shit'... Brotherly love.

He found himself writing music a lot more, rather than focusing on studying or homework. The criminal psychology books lay unopened on his coffee table, gathering dust. He knew it all anyway. He played his violin aggressively, often needing to change the strings.

His mind would race along with his pulse, eagerly pacing around his flat until morning drew and he'd leave for class, always on time. He garnered many looks, especially when he hadn't taken the time to properly straighten his shirt or fix the messy tangle of black curls that grew from his head.

He almost constantly had dark circles that were accentuated by his paper white skin. He always looked sickly. The women would turn their noses up at him and reject him without any approach on his part.

"_Look at him," the girl whispered to her friend which sat in the parallel desk. The two leaned forward, staring down the side of Sherlock's head as if it were a television screen. "He has to do coke. Fucking disgusting."_

"_Oh, you mean like your sexual habits with the man you had sex with last night? Or should I say, your professor?"_

"_How the hell do you know about that?" She would whisper back, pitch increasing tenfold and her face turning a brilliant shade of purple. Sherlock would chuckle and turn back to his notebook, doodling circles and patterns as he waited for the stream of information to hit his receptors._

He found himself shooting up and snorting two or three times a day at his, ironically and literally, highest point. He succeeded in his exams without even touching a textbook. The days without were his lowest points. He yelled a lot and slept a lot, finding himself contemplating death and wondering if it would be any easier than the Hell he found himself in day after day. All the uncaring people, especially women that turned a cold shoulder towards him, his increasingly aggressive yet somehow perfect brother; it was all too much to handle outside in the real world and away from the enchantment that was the drug.

Weight loss had begun to occur, and during break his parents were the first to point it out.

"_You have gotten so thin, love." His mother stated, pointing a well-sharpened claw into his ribs. He let out a muffled grunt and touched the sore spot. His brother made a noise of discontentment across the table, shooting darts at Sherlock's body._

"_I notice Mycroft has had quite the opposite effect. Maybe you should go back to university, brother." Sherlock snickered, dragging his fork across his plate and creating an ear-splitting screeching sound, one comparable to nails on a chalkboard. His brother slammed his glass of wine down._

"_You are an adult now, have you learned to behave yet and not like a… zoo animal?!"_

_Mr. and Mrs. Holmes let out a groan. The woman looked tired and worn as she looked up to give her husband a weak smile. He knew exactly what she was thinking._

_"I hate Christmas."_

He was playing a loud concerto on his violin when the doorbell rang. He paused and turned around, staring at the door and resting his instrument down. He hated visitors and grabbed the few baggies left on his desk, shoving them into his pockets. The doorbell rang again, accompanied by a knocking that made him flinch. He made his way to the door slowly and the annoying sounds quit. They were gone.

He chuckled to himself and peeked out the door, only to find there was a small package outside his flat. Sherlock grinned from ear to ear and cracked the entrance open, snatching the box into his hands. He had forgotten he'd ordered it – boredom had lead him to do a bit of catalogue shopping for dead body parts; one of his most favorite things.

He ripped the masking tape off the cardboard and threw the wrappings aside to find his skull, the specific one he had asked for. It was an almost perfect specimen. He chuckled and rubbed his fingers against the bone, playing with the joints connecting the jaw to the head.

"You're a male," he smiled. "Don't worry, I prefer male company."

Sherlock laid down on his couch and rested the skull on his stomach, staring into it's eye-sockets as if it were still a real, living being. He stroked the back of its head, a smile still playing on his lips. The stupid thing made him feel comforted as he moved it up closer and onto his chest.

"You know, I don't know why I was compelled to buy a skull. Guess I just decided it would be the best first body part to experiment on. You're too handsome, though. I can't do that to you."

He sighed as he moved the skull to the table just opposite of him and reached into his pockets, disposing the bags of cocaine around it. Sherlock stared at it, studying the nose cavity and the perfect crest of the scalp.

"You must have been old. You look a little old. I'd say about 75, give or take a few years."

He felt his body begin to shake. The high was wearing off. He eyed his cocaine, a slow tear running down his cheek.

"I don't need this anymore," He whispered to his skull, drawing his hands up to his sides as his trembling fingers ran their way across his xylophone body, tracing every crevice between his ribs. He slid his hands up and down, from his protruding collar bones to his sharp hips. "I don't want it anymore."

He yelled out and grabbed the cocaine and ran to his bathroom. Everything was a blur in his mind as he flushed the coke away, feeding the fish in the Thames the incredible and destructive high that he craved. He stormed back to his living space and collapsed in front of the skull, watching it closely. It wasn't judging him or yelling at him. It didn't scoff or make any snide comments about his appearance. He touched the top of it gently and rubbed his face with his other hand.

"Well, mate… Dinner?"


End file.
